


Counterpoint Melodies

by MostlyHubris



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: But who am I to ignore the emotional whims of bards, Enemies to Lovers, Feelings Realization, Gratuitously handsome Valdo Marx, M/M, Sick Fic, This ended up having a lot more feelings that I originally intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23318785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostlyHubris/pseuds/MostlyHubris
Summary: Jaskier falls ill. The sort of ill that finds it's way into letters to next of kin, imploring them for a visit, perhaps sooner than later. Valdo delights in Jaskier's suffering, in his weak and bedridden state. As pathetic as he's always known him to be. He finds his way to that weekends competition with a spring in his step and wins soundly.Never before has a victory felt so bitter, so wrong.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx
Comments: 7
Kudos: 93





	Counterpoint Melodies

**Author's Note:**

> I was, coincidentally, suffering a fever when I wrote this. I'd like to think it helped me get into character.

Jaskier first meets Valdo Marx while wandering the gardens around Oxenfurt. He hears him before he sees him, a slow elegant melody that he follows down paths of packed earth and between hedges until finally, turning a corner, he finds himself bumping straight into the music's source. He is tall and youthful, looking as though he has not been at the university much longer than Jaskier himself. Jaskier is enamored instantly. His clothes are refined and his back is straight as he holds himself with a distinguished air. He turns towards Jaskier and speaks.

And with his words, the flame extinguishes. 

Their first interaction serves as a volatile foundation for their growing displeasure. They are two talented, yet terribly opposite forces. Valdo is as much elegant as he is arrogant, and in Jaskier's words, “A right pompous bastard.” Jaskier delights in the crass, and happily tests his lute on unruly drunken crowds in the backs of taverns, ones Valdo scoffs at from the polished comfort of noble company. 

There is, however, one place they can both always be found. Standing center stage at any and every competition held in the city, of which there are plenty. They always watch each other attentively when the other plays, trading sneers for smiles as they each take their turns before the audience. Their animosity deepens each time there is a victor and, of course, a loser. They play, practice, and study with rivalrous ferocity, each eager to come out ahead. 

Then, Jaskier falls ill. The sort of ill that finds it's way into letters to next of kin, imploring them for a visit, perhaps sooner than later. Valdo delights in Jaskier's suffering, in his weak and bedridden state. As pathetic as he's always known him to be. He finds his way to that weekends competition with a spring in his step and wins soundly. 

Never before has a victory felt so bitter, so wrong.

That evening as he sings in celebration the lyrics all taste of ash in his mouth. He finds himself confronted by a world in which Jaskier does not exist, and he feels a hollow space open next to his own beating heart.

Suddenly, Valdo understands.

He stands outside Jaskier's room, pleading with a healer to make it all right again. He stays there, tending to him when the healer is away, learning more about medicine than in all his prior years. His hands are put to any use he can find, mixing herb and brewing teas, carefully helping the delirious bard sip them down. In the quiet hours of the night he picks up his lute and weaves a melody that only exists in those moments, a plea for opened eyes and steady breathing. Throughout, Jaskier sleeps.

A week passes before his fever breaks. As Jaskier finally awakes, Valdo lets out a breath he's held since he arrived, and finds he has no air left for words. Instead, he quietly slips out the door, trusting the healers to their work.

Years later, after a wish upon a djinn, Jaskier and his witcher find themselves on separate paths, and he meanders his way towards Cidaris. At first it's slow, unconsciously choosing the forks that lead in that direction. He and Valdo, they hate each other. He knew it as he shouted his hearts desire at the djinn, the final act in their on going show of one-upmanship. There should be no greater joy than coming out the victor in their long drawn rivalry. Right? And yet, his journey becomes more hurried, panicked, for reasons he can't fully comprehend. He finds himself beseeching other travelers for passage, riding in backs of wagons in exchange for song and coin. 

Every step is more urgent than the last, and he passes through the gates of Cidaris at a sprint. He dashes through the streets until, as he approaches the courts gardens, he hears the sound he did not know he needed. A sound that is graceful, passionate, and so very alive. It sounds like the drip of water from a cloth, lightly pressed across his forehead as he opens his eyes to a morning he wasn't sure would come. It sounds like cautious steps approaching his bedside, the shift of a blanket as an arm cradles him into a sitting position and a cup is pressed to his lips. It sounds like the quiet whispers of a blurred figure praying for his health to any god that will listen.

It sounds like a melody he's heard before, crisp and clear in an otherwise hazy world of a long fevered night.

Suddenly, Jaskier understands.

He follows the melody down paths of packed earth and through the hedges and freezes as he turns a final corner. He does not run into the player physically, yet he feels their collision all the same and the air is knocked from his lungs. He looks exactly as he's always remembered him, clothes refined and back straight. Valdo pauses his playing, lip curling as he recognizes Jaskier. He turns to him to speak.

And he stops. His brows knit together as Jaskier continues to stand there, chest heaving, shaken and stricken. Valdo's face softens, trading a sneer for a smile, and he waits.

Jaskier takes a deep breath to compose himself, opens his mouth to confess his freshly realized affections, and out spills, “That last note was flat, and, and,” He exhales and tries again, “your hat-” He grimaces as he fumbles for his words, “looks ridiculous.” 

For a moment, the world is quiet.

Then Valdo laughs, rich and deep and sincere and Jaskier flushes a deep cherry red. Valdo sets down his instrument, crosses the lawn to in a few long strides, and pulls Jaskier's hands into his own. Bright eyes meet as they share soft, genuine smiles.

Each so very understood.

**Author's Note:**

> Valdo, as Jaskier shows up red faced and throwing down the absolutely lamest insults they've ever shared: <3<3<3 _finally_ <3<3<3
> 
>   
> Writing is still quite new to me, so I happily welcome any and all comments, corrections, and constructive criticisms.
> 
> This was based on a tumblr ask. Feel free to come chat with me there at [valdo-marx](https://valdo-marx.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope it was enjoyable!


End file.
